The Better Part
by wobbear
Summary: While Grissom is away on a consult, Sara works a case with Brass—oh, and there are some phone calls. GSR, costarring Brass.
1. Chapter 1

**The Better Part**

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** Teen. Case details may be disturbing.  
**Disclaimer:** The principal characters don't belong to me, but it's fun to play with them.  
**Spoilers/Timeline** Set after_ Built to Kill Part 1_.Anything earlier is fair game.  
**Author's note:** After BTK1 I was reading **Mingsmommy**'s excellent _One more chance_ and remembering how much I like Brass. It took a while, but this was the result. There's a reference to a scene in my fic _Occam's Razor_, but it's not vital to read that first. Includes my first vague tilt toward a case file. The remaining chapters will be posted as regularly as real life permits.  
Much appreciation to** PhDelicious** for the beta.

**Summary:** While Grissom is away on a consult, Sara works a case with Brass—oh, and there are some phone calls. GSR, co-starring Brass.

* * *

**  
Chapter 1 **

_Tuesday morning―pre-dawn_

Sara paused on her walk-through of the homicide scene to jot down a few notes, and wondered when Grissom would turn up. It had been close to the end of shift when they had been summoned to respond to this case. She and Grissom had been walking out of the lab together, kits in hand, when he'd been called back to deal with a phone call from Carson City. He'd told her to go ahead, he would follow.

Now, it was time to start processing the scene, but first she had to collect her kit from the truck. As she started toward the door, an electronic warble broke the silence; her phone's display read 'Grissom' and she grinned to herself. _Speak of the devil._

Walking swiftly out the door to where she'd parked the crime lab Denali, Sara flipped open the phone and pressed the answer button, saying, "Hi." Leaning against the side of the hood she continued, "What's up? I thought you'd be here by now."

"Sorry, but you're now working solo. The Carson City Sheriff's Department has requested my help. They've got an insect-infested corpse found on the eastern shore of Lake Tahoe. Warrick gave me a ride to the airport on the way to his scene; I'm waiting for my boarding call as we speak."

"Bugman to the rescue, huh? OK, I've already started here; I'll get on with it. Hey, I'd been thinking about us getting away to Lake Tahoe for a break. If you get a chance, could you scope out secluded cabins for rent?"

"Sure, that's a great idea. Uh, I forget what it said on the dispatch slip; who's the detective on your case?" Grissom knew all too well what a difference that could make to a CSI's work.

"Oh, no worries there, it's Brass."

A sense of calm settled over Grissom. She would be all right, no matter how difficult the case. He knew Jim Brass would look out for her.

"Good. Uh, Cath's in charge. She may be able to lend you Greg, but she's got a strange-sounding double murder in a Caesar's Palace hotel room, so don't count on it. Remember to take breaks, Sara. Especially if you're solo. Go outside, talk to Brass, the cop on the door, whatever."

"Got it—_really_." His protectiveness could be endearing, but it bordered on suffocating at times. She willed herself not to sound petulant. "You know, I've been doing this for a little while. I'll be fine." She heard a PA announcement in Grissom's background.

"Yeah, I know. They're calling my flight; got to go. Call me, whenever, please. Stay safe."

"Goo—" Sara stopped. He'd cut the connection. Her bugman was clearly in a hurry. She collected her kit from the back of the truck and headed back inside.

-------------------

A policeman stood guard outside the imposing wood-paneled front door on Desert Quail Drive. The house, in the Pueblo Village area of Summerlin, was owned by Grant Dorlowe, whose forty-something corpse had recently been found inside. Numerous stab marks to the victim's back brooked no doubt; suicide was not the COD. No one else had been in the house when the police had first arrived, alerted by an anonymous call.

Sara was in the garage, which appeared to be the primary crime scene, taking multiple photos of the workshop area. A workbench ran the length of the garage's back wall, and a large vise was attached to the edge of the bench about half way along. The man's dead body lay in a crumpled curl below the vise and a sizeable blood pool surrounded him. She murmured to herself, "Wounds not immediately fatal; he bled out."

"Huh? Didn't quite catch that." Jim Brass had appeared in the doorway, back from an initial canvas of the neighbors.

"Talking to yourself now? I thought you left that to a former CSI, now LVPD detective." He smirked genially at her. Theirs was a serious, often harrowing job, and a little levity could sometimes lighten the load—as long as the victim's family and friends were well out of earshot.

"Just thinking out loud. The difference is, I don't do it when I know other people are around and may be annoyed by it."

"So, where's your fearless leader? I thought you said he was going to be joining us."

Sara set the camera down on her kit, done with pictures for now. "He was, only he just called. He's at McCarran, about to catch a flight to Reno."

"Lemme guess—body with bugs?"

"Man, you're good."

Brass fashioned a flowery bow in response. Then he considered Sara and the large, well-packed garage. "Not that I don't love having you to myself." Sara rolled her eyes. "But couldn't you use a hand here?"

"Probably, but no one's available. Nick's off in Austin--"

"Oh, yeah, the Longhorns game." He nodded. "The others?"

"Warrick's got a trio of home invasions, which may be linked—sounds like he needs help himself—and Cath needs Greg at Caesar's. I just spoke to her, too."

"Hmmm. Well, I can stick round for a bit. You know, Grissom sometimes lets me stay within 10 feet of him when he's working a crime scene; I've picked up a little here and there. Got any spare gloves?"

Sara grinned as she crouched over her kit, and tossed him a pair. "Not to mention that you used to head the unit."

"Yikes, these are tight." Brass flailed around in an exaggerated effort to don the gloves.

"Uh, Jim, I really appreciate your offer of help, but why don't you have some in your own size with you?"

"Eh―" Brass wiggled and flexed his right fingers as he tugged the latex with his left hand. "I got out of the habit with that little stretch I had off work."

Scuffling sounds coming from inside the house announced the arrival of David Phillips to pronounce death. "Hi, Captain Brass, Sara. Is this the sole victim?"

"That's right, David," confirmed Brass.

The assistant coroner leaned over the body, speaking quietly as he worked his way through the prescribed procedures. "Lividity is fixed, and confirms that this is where he died." He tried moving the victim's right hand, then the arm. "Rigor has come and gone."

He carefully noted down the liver temperature on his clipboard. "Given the ambient temperature, TOD was, oh, between 8 and 9 pm last night."

David then leaned in to look more closely at the wounds on the deceased's back. Measuring, he spoke louder. "These incisions are all the same size, just under 20mm in length and with little trauma around the cuts, indicating a sharp implement."

Brass, over by the work bench, surveyed the neatly-arrayed hand tools. All were clipped in place on a brown pegboard, which ran the length of the bench. "Something like a chisel?"

"Ah, yeah, could be."

Sara moved to join Brass, and scanned more closely, playing the beam of her flashlight slowly over the collection. "Wow. This guy, or someone, has outlined each tool in narrow white lines on the board."

"Anal, much?" muttered Brass. David shook his head in amazement.

She wandered further along. "And there's a chisel missing. We've got"—she bent to read the blades—"a one-inch chisel, a gap, then a half-inch one."

"The one in the middle is likely to be a three-quarter inch blade, or 18 millimeters," remarked David. "Just under 20mm, like the wounds on the victim's back."

"Killed with his own chisel, ya think?" Brass raised an eyebrow. "Weapon of opportunity, or some sort of karmic retribution?"

"I'll leave that to you people to find out," said David. "Uh, I'm finished here. You've done all you want to with the body in situ, Sara?"

"Yep."

She pressed the button to raise the garage door while he called in his assistant; together the two manhandled the corpse into a body bag and onto a gurney. Pushing it out of the garage, David turned back with a small shy smile to say goodbye. "See you at the autopsy, Sara."

"Yeah, see you there, David."

As the door rolled shut again behind the departing Coroner's van, Brass chuckled. "I love it, the guy's happily engaged and he still blushes like an idiot around you."

Sara decided it was easiest to ignore that comment. "C'mon, let's get to it."

-------------------

As he entered the arrivals waiting area of Reno-Tahoe International Airport, Grissom spotted a placid-looking deputy holding a piece of card that read, in thick marker, "DOC GWISSOM". He grumbled mildly to himself as he hastened over. _Looks like Elmer Fudd does the writing in the Carson City Sheriff's Office_. Likely he was being over-sensitive, but he would rather not be seen responding to that sign.

"Gil Grissom." His abrupt non-salutation startled the officer into dropping the sign—face down, Grissom noted thankfully. He thrust out his hand for a perfunctory shake.

The man recovered, shook the offered hand and replied, "Uh, Deputy Joe Morrow, Doctor. I'm to take you directly to the scene, unless you want to stop somewhere first."

He picked up Grissom's overnight bag saying, "I'll take that, sir. Would you follow me? The cruiser's right outside."

Grissom grabbed his kit, and easily kept up with the taller man's deliberate stride. Morrow had sparse, closely cropped fair hair and a ruddy outdoors complexion atop a rangy six foot two frame. The deputy seemed to be one of those men who thought that pulling a wheeled bag showed him to be soft—that wasn't Grissom's problem.

"By the way, sorry about the sign, Doctor. Our receptionist wrote it; she's a little over excited by the birth of her first grandchild, and wasn't paying attention. She gave it to me with a pile of files, and I only noticed it once I was here waiting—no markers handy."

"Deputy? We're around the same age, and you're making my bones creak every time you address me as 'Doctor' or 'sir'. Do me a favor? Call me Grissom."

"Only if you'll call me Joe, Grissom. Sorry for the formality. I don't meet a whole lot of PhDs, and you never know."

"Sure, don't worry about it. Joe it is. Where are we going, exactly?" Grissom inquired as they reached the vehicle, which was parked in the cross-hatched 'emergency vehicles only' zone.

"It's a cove known as Secret Harbor, on the eastern shore of the lake. It's about 15 miles from Carson City; from here, it should take about an hour."

Grissom felt his initial tension fading away as Joe loaded his bags into the trunk. They got in the car and headed south.

"Carson City only has responsibility for a few miles of shoreline, but the stretch includes some popular beaches." Joe looked over briefly at Grissom, and seemed to be weighing his words.

Grissom wondered at the hesitation, then saw the deputy had made a decision.

"Heck, I guess you've seen pretty much everything in your job. Secret Harbor is one of Lake Tahoe's 'clothing optional' beaches."

"Oh, right. The body?"

"No, the DB is clothed. We're working on the theory that he was dumped from a boat; it's several minutes' hike down from the parking area."

"Some of the beach regulars found the victim?" theorized Grissom.

"Uh-uh. You'd expect that, but no. A couple of kayakers who were paddling their way round the Lake Tahoe water trail landed to rest their arms and eat lunch. They were trying to keep their distance from the nude sunbathers, they said, by sitting on a couple of big boulders at one end of the main beach. Then it started to rain, so they took refuge under a tree, and disturbed a bunch of pine branches which had been laid over the body." He concluded, "It's kinda jammed in under a large boulder."

Grissom pursed his lips, considering. "They weren't alerted by the smell? I gather he's been dead more than a day—even if you don't know what it is, the stench of a decomp is hard to miss."

Morrow nodded in his measured way, "Yeah, I wondered about that too. But there's a breeze that rises off the lake in the afternoons, and . . . maybe they were distracted by the amount of skin on show."

-------------------

Together they processed the scene, Brass doing most of the scut work and Sara the actual collection so she could truthfully sign the chain of custody forms. Thorough dusting of the workbench for latent prints revealed only a couple of partials. The tools were carefully bagged and tagged for examination back at the lab.

"Blood, and maybe mucus, on the vise," announced Sara as she took photos. "But the rest is very clean. I'm not convinced it was the killer cleaning up; the whole place looks almost obsessively clean and tidy. The rest of the house is the same."

"Hmmm. That'd be in keeping with the lines on the pegboard."

Kneeling down to take swabs from the drying blood pool, Sara caught a metallic glint out the corner of her eye. She turned in search of the source, but all she could see was Dorlowe's large, black vehicle. Brass was over on the other side of it, scanning with his flashlight—_maybe she'd just seen the moving beam?_

"Huh—Cadillac STS," Brass grunted. "Wonder why he got the grille and wheels in matt black?"

"To make it look mean?" Sara put the blood swabs safely in the evidence crate, and crouched to annotate the log, which lay on the floor beside the box. Again she half-saw, half-sensed _something_. Her Maglite was on the bench a few feet away. "Hey, Brass, would you shine your light under the car?"

Brass grunted as he lowered himself, "Sheesh, the things I do for you. I'm not a young man, y'know."

"Enough with the age thi—"

Brass spotted it at the same time. "Well, whaddaya know—the missing chisel."

Sara could reach it, just, but was concerned about collecting the chisel as cleanly as possible. Fortunately she had already examined the vehicle. Brass found car keys on a hook just inside the kitchen, and backed the car out into the driveway.

"Surprise, surprise, there's blood on it." Sara took a few swabs, then very delicately placed the tool into an evidence bag. She would fume it for prints back at the lab.

Shortly after that find, Sara declared that they were done. Brass helped her load up equipment and evidence. They left in their respective vehicles; Sara heading for the lab and Brass to LVPD to follow up on people who had known the dead man.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**The Better Part**

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** Teen. Case details may be disturbing.  
**Disclaimer:** The principal characters don't belong to me, but it's fun to play with them.  
**Spoilers/Timeline:** Set after_ Built to Kill Part 1_.Anything earlier is fair game.  
**Author's note:** A big thank you to** PhDelicious** for the beta.

**Summary:** While Grissom is away on a consult, Sara works a case with Brass—oh, and there are some phone calls. GSR, co-starring Brass.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 2 **

_Tuesday morning―after sunrise _

They were nearing Secret Harbor. The journey had gone faster than Grissom had expected. The time had passed in easy conversation with Joe Morrow, more stimulating that he'd anticipated after their awkward introduction.

The deputy flicked on the turn signal, slowed down and pulled off into a parking area on the lakeward side of Highway 28. As he did so, he spoke, "Oh, Grissom, I should've mentioned. I have to leave you here, but there's someone waiting to take you down to the body, a rookie Forensic Specialist from our Crime Lab. He's new here, but very keen and bright, and yours to command. If all you want is a guy to carry your kit, fine, it's up to you. He can observe."

And there he was—a compact, olive-skinned young man, leaning against a white Ford Escape with the Sheriff's Department star on the door. He straightened up jerkily, repositioned his cap on his head, and rubbed his hands down the outside of his khakis. An apprehensive junior was no novelty for Grissom. He just hoped that he could put the kid at ease sooner rather than later—he'd be much more useful once he relaxed. It would help, too, if he wasn't squeamish about insects.

Morrow introduced Grissom to Juan-Carlos Villablanca, as he transferred Grissom's personal belongings to the crime lab vehicle. Grissom retrieved his kit from the trunk of the cruiser. Morrow made his farewells; having delivered the consultant effectively to the scene, he had to go back into the regular patrol rotation.

Villablanca cleared his throat nervously. "Doctor Grissom, it's an honor to meet you. I did an entomology option in my Biological Sciences degree, so I'm familiar with the basics. I hope I can be of some assistance to you."

That sounded promising.However, there was that name thing again. "Please call me Grissom," he said crisply. "Everyone does."

"Uh, well, despite occasional razzing, I'm known as JC. I also answer to Carlos, if you prefer."

"Fine, JC, I take it you've already examined the body?"

"Uh, yes, I mean no. Um . . . eyes, not hands." JC visibly reined in his nerves, and this time spoke more confidently. "The coroner has declared, and her transport team will come collect the body once you've done your work."

Grissom nodded, and looked down at his light loafers. "So—I'll change into more appropriate footwear, then let's get on with it." He reached in under the open rear door of the SUV to open his carryon, and dug inside for the plastic bag that contained his hiking boots. After hoisting himself up onto the back edge of the cargo area, he pulled off his shoes. He loosened the boot laces to more easily tug them on, then tightened them methodically for a comfortable fit.

JC's cell blared the opening notes of the baseball charge, and he quickly silenced it by answering. Clamping the phone between his head and right shoulder, he delved into his left hip pocket and drew out a small notebook. He moved to use the vehicle's hood as a desk while he scribbled some notes.

By Grissom's reckoning, it was around 15 degrees cooler than Las Vegas, so he swapped his light jacket for a warmer fleece one. As he re-zipped his bag and slid down to stand on his newly-shod feet, the call ended and JC joined him again.

"Grissom, I have some info about the vic . . . tim." He hastily added the second syllable, having seen Grissom's eyes narrow in displeasure at the casual abbreviation.

Hesitant once more, the rookie sought refuge in his notebook as he stammered, "Uh--um, Doctor Grissom, the victim is Liam, known as 'Lucky', Napluder, a 58-year-old realtor who lived in Reno. In fact, we already knew that, because the coroner found wallet ID, and the face fit."

He checked his notes yet again, and looked up, more assured again as he continued, "He operated throughout the Lake Tahoe area. According to the chief deputy's initial inquiries, there are suggestions that he was involved in some suspect land and condo deals. The forensic accountants are trawling through ledgers and computer records."

"OK." Grissom tilted his head back and looked at the pale blue sky, wishing for a wistful moment that he could take wing and fly up over the Carson Range back to Las Vegas, back to Sara, instead of crouching interminably over a malodorous corpse, chasing insects that were highly skilled at evading capture. He resignedly returned his eyes earthwards, and stared morosely at his boots as he said, "And given the circumstances in which his body was found, homicide seems more likely than suicide, but let's not assume."

He sighed heavily. Then he inhaled a deep pine-scented breath and was jolted into a reality check. His assistant had a few clues, it was a sunny morning and he was in the big fresh outdoors.

Things could be a lot worse.

Humor improved, Grissom looked over at JC and asked, "Will you lead the way?"

"It's about a 15-minute walk down to the beach. I left my kit there with the deputy who's guarding the body; I'll take this." JC hefted Grissom's kit and headed toward the access road which began by the parking lot. Down a way, just after a couple of porta-johns and some trash cans, they turned off onto a trail. The tree-lined path gradually wended its way down to the lake, skirting around large boulders.

En route, Grissom probed a little, learning that his companion had spent his undergraduate years at the University of Texas, and had a Masters in Forensic Science from George Washington. And he had nearly two years' experience in the field, mostly back home in Houston. He could prove to be very useful.

Yes, things could be a whole lot worse.

Eventually the trail opened onto a narrow beach.

As they emerged from the trees, Grissom spotted crime scene tape cordoning off an area at the northern end of the cove, and a deputy dressed in the Carson City gray and tan standing vigil nearby.

-------------------

_Tuesday late afternoon _

"MY OFFICE STAT JIMBO"

Sara grinned as she read her pager. Brass had sternly forbidden her from using that nickname, but he would occasionally sign pager messages with it.

She gently folded Dorlowe's blood-stained shirt back into the brown paper evidence bag, and took it from the layout room back to the evidence vault. The mandated signatures to preserve the chain of evidence were soon done, and she headed over to LVPD headquarters.

Brass was coming out of his office as she approached. "Hey, Sara, that was quick."

"You page, I come running."

"Can I get you to train some of your colleagues as to appropriate response times?"

"Oh yeah—lemme guess; you'd like me to work on Warrick first, then . . . Grissom?"

"Forget it. Never gonna work." Brass shrugged, unconcerned. "Life's too short."

They shared a long look, silently remembering his recent brush with mortality.

Soon Brass straightened his shoulders, cleared his throat and started, "Uh, we've got the vic's step-daughter in there." He waved in the direction of his office, and then referred to his notes. "Jemma; 15 years old; mom died when she was 11, leaving her with her step-dad. She's a sophomore at the Meadows School. It's private, very expensive: Dorlowe had money. She was four days into a week-long geography trip in the Grand Canyon when he was killed. Numerous confirmations, her alibi's solid. And all the neighbors we canvassed said what a lovely kid she is. Some business associate of Dorlowe's sent his chopper to fly her, and her friend, back here after the news broke."

Brass paused as he searched for the right words. "She's . . . something's off. She's shocked, maybe, but I'm not seeing sadness, grief. She's not saying a lot, I grant you. You'd think . . . I mean, her sole remaining parental figure has just been murdered, and she seems . . . unfazed. Distant, not distraught." He rocked back and forth on his feet for a moment, but that didn't inspire any further thoughts. "Enough of my observations; let's talk to her."

He stood to the side of the door, reaching out to turn the handle. "After you."

-------------------

"Uh, Hi, Sara. Um . . . where the body is, down by the lake, there's no cell signal. I'm taking a break so I walked back up the trail to find one . . . I think you'd like it here. Have you ever been kayaking? Uh . . . hope your case is going all right. Remember to go home and sleep sometime. I guess we'll speak later. Uh . . . OK, bye.

-------------------

Jemma Dorlowe was a slender 5 foot 5, with straight, dirty blonde shoulder-length hair. Her bony elbows were propped on the edge of the desk, and she was picking listlessly at the lip of a paper cup. She didn't look up as they entered, although she slowly lifted her head when Brass spoke.

"Hi again, Jemma. This is Sara Sidle. She's a CSI, a crime scene investigator, and it's her job to find the evidence to help us figure out who killed your step-father."

Sara took the guest chair beside the girl, first moving it parallel to the desk, so she was half-turned toward Jemma. Brass wandered around his desk, and sat in his chair, pushing it back so he could easily see them both. He put on his best bored observer look, with sharp eyes sneaking views from under half-closed lids.

Sara started with procedural matters, which normally had the dual effect of satisfying interview protocols as well cutting the tension which hung in the air.

"Jemma—first of all, I'm very sorry for your loss. Thanks for agreeing to speak to us; Captain Brass has probably already explained that we just want to get some background information to help build a picture of Mr Dorlowe's life. As you know, you're not charged with any crime, but as a minor you're entitled to have a responsible adult or adviser in here with you. Is there anyone you'd like us to call?"

Jemma glanced up with eyes that appeared decades older than her years, and she answered with a single shake of her head.

"It could be someone like a relative, a teacher, a friend's parent, someone from your church, or we could get in a social worker for you."

The girl shifted in her seat, and began speaking in a strange monotone. "I'm staying with my best friend; her mother dropped us off here on her way to work. She's a single parent, and works mostly the day shift doing security at the Luxor. My mom and all my grandparents are dead. My one aunt works for MSF, Doctors Without Borders; she's never in the country. I never knew my real Dad. My teachers do their jobs, but I don't want them involved in my private life. I'm an atheist. And social workers . . ." Her opinions on them were evidently unspeakable.

She gulped in a breath and stared straight at Sara. "So, no, there's no one I want here."

Inwardly feeling for the girl, Sara launched into a series of open-ended questions designed to elicit general background information. In stark contrast to her wordy explanation moments before, Jemma answered with the bare minimum, a few syllables or words at most. Her eyes were fixed unseeing on her paper cup, which she continued to mutilate.

Sara turned questioning eyes to Brass, and he grimaced minutely. "Uh, Sara, I just remembered something that needs to be done at the lab. Can we . . ." His voice trailed off and he pointed with his chin toward the hall.

"Excuse us for a moment please, Jemma." The girl vaguely waved a hand in a "whatever" gesture. He rose and moved around the desk as he spoke, and motioned for Sara to precede him out the door. He closed it carefully behind them, then cop and CSI moved a way down the hall to avoid any chance of being overheard. Even so, they spoke quietly.

"Brass, clearly this isn't working. D'you want to try alone?"

Pursing his lips, Brass shook his head. "I already have. Believe it or not, she's said more to you than I got out of her. There's something about me not being able relate to girls, young women." For a fleeting moment, sadness dulled his eyes, then he shrugged and attempted a nonchalant grin.

Sara put a reassuring hand on his forearm. "Trust me, Jim, it's nothing to do with you."

She cast her eyes around the echoing corridor as her mind sought an approach that might work on the reticent teenager.

"Why did she agree to come, if she didn't want to talk?" mused Brass. He was flipping absent-mindedly through his notebook as he pondered.

Sara's dark eyes turned almost black as, without warning, the past flooded back to haunt her. "Simple. To get it over with."

Brass looked up, surprised at Sara's harsh tone.

She saw him studying her intently and tried to downplay her reaction, saying offhandedly, "Wouldn't you?"

Shoving his notebook into a jacket pocket, Brass decided to study the toes of his shoes. He lightly rubbed an index finger over his lips as he thought. "My Mister Nice Guy bore no fruit. What say I go back in and try the bad cop approach? And you―"

"I'll go see if I can talk to the friend."

"She's waiting—" Brass paused, as Sara strode purposefully away down the hall. "In reception," he finished, speaking to himself.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**The Better Part**

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** Teen. Case details may be disturbing.  
**Disclaimer:** The principal characters don't belong to me, but it's fun to play with them.  
**Spoilers/Timeline:** Set after_ Built to Kill Part 1_. Anything earlier is fair game.  
**Author's note:** Thanks a lot for your reviews. It's always nice to know that people are reading and interested. But what with the alert system being down recently, and my defective memory, I lost track of who I've replied to individually, so please accept this general thank you.  
Merci mille fois to the wonderful **PhDelicious** for the beta. But I fiddle; all errors and oddities that remain are, of course, mine.  
Please note the warning beside the rating.

**Summary:** While Grissom is away on a consult, Sara works a case with Brass—oh, and there are some phone calls. GSR, co-starring Brass.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 3 **

_Tuesday—late afternoon _

Having discovered that Jemma's friend was taking a restroom break, Sara leaned against a wall in the waiting area and thumbed speed dial #1 on her cell phone. After two and a half rings it went to voicemail, and Grissom's familiar, measured tones requested his caller to leave a clear message and a number should they wish him to call back.

"Oh, Hi, Gil, got your message, thanks. We've got no obvious leads, but I'm about to interview someone, and she'll be along soon. It must be great seeing all the trees down to the water's edge—I hate how Lake Mead's banks are so barren. Hey, I think she's here now, I'd better go. I'll call you later."

-------------------

"Hi, you're Jemma Dorlowe's friend, aren't you?"

"Yeah, Jo Marano. Officially it's Joanne. I prefer Jo."

"Well Jo, I'm Sara Sidle. I'm a Crime Scene Investigator, and I've just been talking to Jemma for background stuff about her step-father. She's with Captain Brass; she'll be along shortly. Is it OK if we have a brief chat?"

Jo shrugged. "Why not? I'm just hanging around otherwise."

Sara went over to the high counter and caught the attention of the woman who was on reception duty. "Sergeant, would you mind telling Captain Brass we're in Interview 2 if he comes looking?"

"Sure thing, Ms Sidle."

Jo Marano was, physically, a very different creature from her friend; four inches taller, of solid build and with dark curly, almost frizzy, hair. After a boring interlude with the tattered law enforcement magazines in the waiting area, she seemed eager to talk.

"My mom picked us up from the heliport." Her eyes sparkled, evidently she'd enjoyed the helicopter flight. "She brought us here on her way to work. She used to be a cop in the army, and she said that you'd arrange a ride home for us. Is that possible? You know moms." Jo grinned.

Sara nodded neutrally. "That's no problem."

"Great, because the closest bus stop is a mile and half from home, and in this heat . . ."

"Really, no problem."

Eager to talk Jo was, until Sara changed the subject to the deceased.

"Grant? He told us to call him Grant. He was . . . rich. Um . . . he became her guardian when her mom died, and . . . uh, that's it."

Sara needed all the help she could get on this case, and Jo had at least started out willing to talk. They were sitting either side of the scratched and dented table, where the seats had been when they entered the room. Very aware it was sometimes easier to open up if the other person wasn't staring straight at you, Sara picked up her chair and moved it to the end of the table, away from the door. She angled the seat toward the opposite corner, giving Jo a view of her profile.

Then with an uninterested expression and an 'I'm just going through the motions' voice, she asked, "When did Jemma's mother die?"

"On her eleventh birthday. But she'd been sick for years before that. The way Jemma tells it, her mom met Grant and married him, and right away she got sick."

"How old was she when they got married?"

"Um, eight? Yeah, it was the year we started third grade."

"So . . . what was Grant like?"

Jo's eyes wandered around the room and found no answers there. Eventually she spoke. "He was a control freak, always wanting to know where J was, what she was doing, telling her to come, or stay, home. He didn't like her being out with anyone."

"'J' is Jemma, right?" checked Sara.

"Wha-? Oh, 'course."

"Was he maybe just being protective? He was the adult responsible for her."

"Yeah, right." Her tone was mocking. "Look, J didn't really get on with him, but she pretty much did what he said. Her mom had made her promise, when she was practically on her death bed, that J would be good and obey Grant after she died. And she takes her promises real seriously, always has. Her mom dying on her own birthday? You gotta know she'd try really hard to keep a promise to her mom."

Jo reflected for a moment, and then said thoughtfully, "She's really smart at school work, but when it comes to people, well, she doesn't always get them. And her mom being sick for so many years, that didn't help."

Sara wanted more details, but didn't want to interrupt the girl's flow. Her silence was rewarded as Jo continued.

"Like, my mom had to explain to her about getting periods. It was two or three years ago, she was staying over for a few days because Grant was away on business, and when Mom was getting ready to do laundry, J tried to pretend she had no panties for the wash. She was hiding them. She'd started, and they were stained. She didn't know why and she was scared."

Sara's throat tightened at that. Even when you knew what was happening, the first few times were disconcerting, at best. More importantly right now though, Jo was talking.

Jo shook her head despairingly, and added, "We'd learned some basic stuff in school, but she didn't connect the two."

"I guess it would've been hard for her to talk Grant about something like that," prompted Sara.

"Mmmm." The girl bent her head to better concentrate on pushing her cuticles back. She seemed to have ground to a halt. _That was not a good prompt_, Sara realized.

"You said that Grant was a control freak, that he didn't like her going out."

A muffled "No" floated to Sara's ears.

"No? What do you mean?"

After a long pause Jo finally spoke, in a flat tone, as if this was very old news. "No. He didn't want her to go out and have a normal teenager's life because he wanted to keep her for himself."

Alarm bells started ringing, and Sara fought to maintain a calm façade. "What do you mean?"

The girl looked up, placed her hands on the table in front of her and stared at Sara for a long mute minute. She bit her lip, and let out a bitter laugh. "What do I mean? He didn't have his wife anymore, so he had her daughter."

Sara sat in growing horror as Jo outlined what she knew.

They both jumped when a knock sounded at the door. Brass stuck his head round and his experienced eyes took in the scene: Jo looking resigned and Sara dumbstruck. He ushered Jemma into the room, and said to the friends, "Hang on a second, please girls—I'll get someone to drive you home."

"Sara, can I have a word with you please?"

-------------------

"Hi, Sara. I was in the middle of the collection when you called before, sorry."

"Griss."

The single syllable was heavy with tension. Sara's normally low, husky voice was high and strained, and Grissom found himself gripping the cell phone tightly. She often called him Gil in private now, but reverted to the nickname in extremis—times of elation or great stress. He sucked in a breath and sought to project calm.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Um . . . nothing really."

"Sounds like something to me." He softened his voice further. "Speak to me, Sara."

"But . . . am I interrupting your work?"

He knew she would get around to what was troubling her eventually. So forthright professionally, she often skated reluctantly around the edges at first when it came to discussing her more personal issues.

"Not at all. I've done what I can at the scene, and I'm sitting on a log at the edge of the beach, waiting for the coroner's people to come pick up the body."

"Oh. Right."

There was a long pause. Grissom waited, watching the tiny ripples of water meeting the shore. In the protected cove, the lake was close to mirror flat. He could hear Sara's ragged breaths as she tried desperately to regain her equilibrium, to push back the tears that were threatening to fall, choking her voice.

She needed to let things out. Hell, he knew that he wasn't good at talking about his feelings, and his memories were a lot less traumatic—all the same, he struggled. How, or even if, a person could hope to come to terms with what had happened to Sara, he didn't know. He was eerily certain that he hadn't heard the full story of Sara's life with her father. Not that he _wanted_ to; he hated what he already knew. He was equally sure that Sara needed to let it out. If he was the only one she would talk to, he would have to be willing to listen. It went against nature _and_ nurture for them both, but they had been working on being more open with each other.

Whatever was wrong, he had to get her to talk.

At length he broke the silence. "Honey . . ."

He heard a big gulp, and finally Sara spoke. "Sorry . . . I'm all right now."

"Um, where are you?" An easy question might help her get started.

"Oh, Brass' office." She laughed thinly. "He almost dragged me out of the interview room. I guess he sensed I was about to lose it. He's off 'getting coffee'. I think he's just giving me space to calm down."

"Can you tell me about it?" A more specific question came to mind. "Who were you interviewing? A suspect?"

"That's a laugh. We _have_ no suspects. We were trawling for background; the deceased's step-daughter wasn't forthcoming. So I tried her best friend."

"Yeah? Did she have anything helpful to say?"

"You could say that." Sara paused, then went on in a rush, "Turns out he had subjected his step-daughter to long-term sexual abuse."

"Ah."

"Yeah. And I . . . well, sometimes . . . I find it hard to work at finding who killed a bastard like that."

"Mmmm." He watched as a Mountain Chickadee foraged for insects in a crevice near the end of his log seat. "You already know this, but it doesn't make it any less true: we're part of the criminal justice system. Our role is to investigate crime scenes, to collect and analyze evidence to solve crimes. We can't . . . It's not a phrase I'm fond of, Sara, but you know that we can't pick the victim. We have to do our jobs no matter what."

"And that girl, who's done nothing wrong, may end up being tossed around the foster care system."

He sighed. It was hard to refute. "Yeah, could be."

"So . . . um . . . what's your case looking like?" She was striving for matter-of-fact, and Grissom's heart twinged at her attempt to move on from her distress. But the blatant subject-change was a good idea. She needed to pull back from the edge and take refuge for a time in the mundane conversations of their daily lives. He could relate to that. Given the nature of the work, he had to be a bit selective, but he could try to help.

"Uh, I think it's a recent body dump, in the last day or two, but it looks like the victim's been dead for longer than that. So if I can isolate the insects which have been with the corpse for longer than a couple of days, and if they're characteristic of another type of environment, I might be able to point to the sort of place he was killed. Maybe." Put like that, it sounded pretty hopeless even to Grissom. However, as he'd insisted to JC, 'there is always a clue'.

He continued, "Of course, the fact that the body was moved adds a level of complexity to my part of the investigation, but—"

"You like puzzles. So you're doing a survey of the tiny fauna as well as an entomological time line, huh?"

"Yup, that I am. Uh, just a second, please?" He turned to JC, who had just led the coroner's staff down from the road, and they spoke briefly.

"Hi, I'm back, but I've got to go, honey. They're here to collect the body, and the forensic specialist who's been helping me is going to drive me back to attend the autopsy. Will you be all right?"

"Yeah, I'm . . . better. Thanks, Gil. Bye."

"I'll call when I can, OK? Bye, Sara."

-------------------

While Sara was on the phone, Brass had been discreetly hovering in the hallway outside his office, chatting to ADA Jeffrey Sinclair about progress, or rather the lack thereof, on another case, and all the time watching Sara out the corner of his eye. He saw her initial tension and the struggle to rein in her emotions, followed by what looked like intense conversation. Then he saw her shoulders relax, and the occasional toss of hair as she grinned unseen at the person she was speaking to.

Once she'd ended the call, he bade farewell to the lawyer, indicating the paper cups he held. "Gotta deliver this before it becomes cold brown sludge."

"Yeah, the fresh from the machine lukewarm version is so much tastier! See you, Jim."

In a practiced maneuver, Brass opened his office door with an elbow on the handle and nudged it wider with a toe. He delivered Sara's coffee with an apologetic grimace, and settled down in his chair. The way he saw it, she didn't need him to re-visit the whole sorry tale; it had clearly pushed some of her buttons, and he figured that helping her to step back from it was his best option right now. "Hey, Jo gave me a CliffsNotes version of what she'd told you, so what say we move on from there?"

Sara nodded her agreement as he took a sip of coffee, then dug in his drawer. He waved a packet of Splenda at Sara, who shook her head.

"I hate this stuff," said Brass. "But I'm trying to cut down on sugar." Having sweetened his drink, he tried again. He shook his head in disgust and shoved the cup aside, giving the coffee up as a lost cause. He looked at Sara quizzically.

"Is it just me, or is something hinky?"

It was a rhetorical question; Sara waited for Brass to continue. He was tapping the fingers of his left hand absently on the desk blotter.

"The anonymous 911 call to report the body was untraceable—probably one of those pay-as-you-go-phones. That's not really unusual though."

He poked his right thumb ceiling-wards.

"Number 1: there's a strong neighborhood watch system and yet 'no-one saw nuthin'."

He jabbed his forefinger in the air.

"Number 2: The step-daughter is the only person with an obvious motive, and she really could not have done it, because she was nearly 300 miles away, rafting in the Grand Canyon. The guy was financially very comfortable, an attorney; even so he doesn't seem to have made any real enemies in the course of his work."

The middle finger was next.

"Number 3: Everyone, and I mean _everyone_ we can think of as a potential suspect, down to the neighbor's dog three doors down, has a cast-iron alibi. Now, in the general run of things, there'll always be a few possibles without decent alibis—after all, plenty of people live alone, and not everyone's a social butterfly, out every night of the week. That, by itself, is seriously hinky."

Brass slowly made a fist in the air, thinking further. "And what about the murder weapon? _If_ the killer wiped down everything, why then toss the chisel? Got disturbed, maybe?"

Sara shrugged. "There's still a lot we haven't figured out. Um, do we know how the mother died?" She swallowed, fighting back the mild sensation of nausea which had developed during the interview with Jo. She knew she would feel better if she could only stop replacing meals with coffee, but she needed the stimulant. Even for her, Sara was short on sleep for the week. They all were. Las Vegas criminals were going through a hyper-active period. Besides, Grissom was the chef of their couple, and he wasn't there to cook something tempting and then wheedle her into eating it.

Brass unclenched his hand and let it fall to the desk, then scrabbled his notebook toward him. "Yeah, that's definitely natural causes." He flipped through the pages. "Right, here it is: ovarian cancer, four years ago. We checked with the physician, oncologist, hospital, and so on."

He looked at Sara. He knew she'd worked at least two doubles last week, and now Grissom wasn't around to send her home. Her normally fair skin was almost translucent. Probably surviving on coffee and little else, he'd wager. Brass looked at his watch—a new nightshift would start in a couple of hours, and he knew he needed some sustenance if he was going to hope to last.

"Hey—I've gotta to eat, and I hate eating alone. Do me a favor and escort me to the Bay City Diner?" He tilted his head and grinned hopefully at her.

"But I'm waiting on --" started Sara.

"You're waiting on trace and DNA. Come _on_, Sara. Neither's likely to yield any results within the next hour, and you know it. Any way, you have a pager, don't ya?"

"OK, OK!" She raised her hands in surrender and spoke through gritted teeth, "Talk about as subtle as a sledge hammer."

Brass smirked sweetly. "I'm known for my way with words."

-------------------

"Uh . . . you're not answering . . . um . . . hi. The autopsy got delayed because the coroner got called out on another case. So I'm back at the hotel for now. I, uh, I found a rental agent who has some nice cabins we could consider. What about . . . Thanksgiving, or maybe Christmas? I've worked enough holidays to last me a lifetime. Um . . . call me when you can. Love you."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**The Better Part **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** Teen. Case details may be disturbing.  
**Disclaimer:** The principal characters don't belong to me, but it's fun to play with them.  
**Spoilers/Timeline:** Set after_ Built to Kill Part 1_.Anything earlier is fair game.  
**Author's note:** **PhDelicious** did it again – the beta that is. Thank you.

**Summary:** While Grissom is away on a consult, Sara works a case with Brass—oh, and there are some phone calls. GSR, co-starring Brass.

**Chapter 4 **

_Tuesday evening _

The Bay City Diner, nestled inside the Golden Gate Hotel on Fremont Street, was known for its big servings and low prices, and was a firm favorite with cops. Sara looked around with approval at the cozy room and smiled at Brass. "This is nice."

He tapped his nose and said in a satisfied voice, "I know things."

Once seated, Sara succumbed without too much of a struggle to Brass' insistence that she order "something decent". She decided on a western omelet and whole grain toast, at which Brass looked pleased. He then surprised her by asking for the same type of toast and a large fruit salad. It was clearly not the first time he'd ordered this, as the waitress checked, "With extra blueberries, right?"

Brass agreed, a trifle wearily, and held up a hand to forestall any comment from Sara. "Yes, yes. The docs went on at me forever about my diet while they had me captive in hospital after the hostage thing. So I'm doing this low cholesterol, high in antioxidants thing. It's sad, because the house specialty here is prime rib."

Sara winked at him. "Good for you. I, for one, truly appreciate your food choices. But why do I get the sense that some of your less health-conscious colleagues hassle you about it?"

Brass shook his head. "I tell ya, you have no idea."

For a while they ate in silent companionship. Brass snuck a covert glance at Sara, and was quietly content to see that a hint of color was coming back into her cheeks.

Done with the omelet, Sara set her fork down on the plate, pushed it toward the edge of the table, and attracted their waitress to top up Brass' coffee. Not wanting to add to her caffeine overdose, she was drinking tomato juice. She eyed Brass, who was stolidly munching on a toast triangle, and contemplated the Smuckers selections for her own.

Soon she was spreading raspberry jam. "So, Warrick said you're hiding your medal of valor commendation in your drawer. I've seen that sort of thing displayed in prime position on other cops' walls. I _do_ know you're not like a lot of cops—still, what's with that?"

Brass took another sip of coffee, grimaced as he remembered he'd again forgotten to add sweetener, then remedied the situation. It was a good delaying tactic too, but eventually he looked up at Sara and asked quietly, "Did he tell you why?"

"Uh, sort of. Something about you feeling stupid, not brave, and not wanting to memorialize that." She leaned in closer to him, for both privacy and emphasis. "Jim, you risked your life going in there, you probably saved that woman's life."

"Yeah, maybe. But it's not like it was a conscious choice. I just kinda bumbled my way into it." Brass frowned ruefully at the memories, and shook his head. "Brave? Valorous? Nah, not me."

He sighed heavily. "Hell, that presentation ceremony . . . All through it I was wishing I'd stayed out of that room and let SWAT handle it. You know the Sheriff, he can never let a PR opportunity go by. I was just the vehicle he chose to ride in that day."

"Hmmm. What you did took guts and you know it. If you won't give yourself any credit, I will. Your friends are proud of you, Jim, even if you aren't. But try and keep out of the way of bullets next time, you hear?"

Brass scrunched up his face and squinted dubiously at Sara. Although he wasn't comfortable with her words, he knew they were well-meant. So he smiled feebly and nodded in acknowledgement.

-------------------

_Wednesday morning _

"Hi. Are you busy?"

"Yes, but not so busy I can't talk." Grissom straightened up from the foam board and took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose and trying to roll the tension out of his shoulders.

"I got your message. Sorry, I didn't have my phone on earlier. Brass took me out to eat, and insisted that that I turn it off—I was in the middle of protesting when I realized the battery was dead. Then afterward, I crashed for a few hours. So, what are you up to?"

"I--"

"No, wait, let me guess," interrupted Sara. "I'd say that you're sticking pins through the tiny corpses of insects unfortunate enough to have happened on your crime scene, having duly noted the precise time of their demise, and you're carefully keeping similar exemplars alive."

He could hear the smile in her voice, and grinned himself. "You know me so well. Yes, I'm working on the time line. How's your case going?"

"The murder? It's going. And Cath gave me a couple of smash-and-grabs for light relief tonight. Plus I'm being better about taking breaks. You're a break, you realize that?"

Her voice was lighter; she really did sound much more relaxed, almost cheerful.

"Mmmm, I had an idea. You sound less . . ." _Fraught_ was the word he had in mind, but he found a less loaded adjective, "tense than the last time we spoke."

"Yeah. I'm trying to find solace in following the procedures fully and looking at all possible angles, leaving no stone unturned."

"You're quoting me again." He wished that he could see her face.

"Maybe I am. And it also keeps me busy investigating so I don't have too much time to stress out about things, which I think was your aim."

"Hey, is Jim still on the case with you?"

"He sure is."

'I've barely seen him since he hassled me that night about shaving off my beard. How's he doing?"

"He seems good. Still moving a bit stiffly, but he's very perky. You know Brass, he does that gruff thing, and pretends total disinterest in what's going on, yet he sees everything. He managed to keep me on track when I was getting a little freaked out by it all. And he's just . . . always there, and that helps. Although he's not very big, somehow he's so solid and reassuring."

"I'm sorry I'm not there, honey." His voice was tinged with regret.

"Please don't start on that—we both know why you aren't. It's the job. I'm fine, really. I guess . . . I'm just not used to having someone to miss, y'know? I mean, I've phoned you at least three times and you've been gone barely 24 hours. I--I worry about . . . seeming too needy."

"Well, I need to know that you'll call whenever you want, so that makes me needy too. I'm fine with it. Anyway," he pointed out, "You're not the only one making the calls."

-------------------

"Brass."

"Hi, I've got something on the Dorlowe case. You remember those two partials from the work bench?"

"Uh, hello, is this Sara?" He teased, letting her wait for a moment, then remarked, "You didn't hold out much hope for them, as I recall."

"Sometimes it's good to be wrong. One was the victim's. The other didn't have enough detail to do anything with it. But then I found another partial on the murder weapon. And Jacqui—"

"Is a marvel, I know." He tilted his chair back. Although he knew she was bursting to speak, there was no harm in drawing out her pleasure a little. "Now, I'm just guessing here, but I'd say they were partials of the same finger, from which Jacqui cleverly made a composite with enough features to search the databases. Am I warm?"

"Right on the money, Brass."

"You wouldn't be this excited unless you had gotten a match."

"D'you wanna guess?" she asked playfully.

Suddenly feeling tired, Brass put his head in his hand, propping his elbow on the desk, and wearily rubbed his gritty eyes. "Uh, Sara, it's been a long week. Just hit me with it."

"Sorry." She sounded a little contrite, still her enthusiasm shone through. "It's Sally Marano."

"Hold on, wasn't that the kid's friend's name? But her first name is—"

"Jo."

"W-wa-wait . . . Bear with me, OK? Just putting the phone down for a sec." Brass flicked with renewed vigor through his notebook, stabbed at a page with his finger, and grabbed the handset again. "Sally Marano, 40, mother of Jo, 10 years' military service as an MP, now works security at the Luxor, said the closest she'd been to the Dorlowe's is dropping Jemma off at the curb. And I quote, 'Never been inside the house.'"

"Yep, we got a hit from her casino work card."

"Y'know, I saw her when she brought the girls into PD. She's around 5'11" and is, uh, strapping, like her daughter. Physically, she looks capable of it; Dorlowe was about your height, not quite so skinny. I think she's about to have a nice little chat with us. You up for it?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

-------------------

"Hi. How're you doing?"

"Good, yeah—really good. We've got a strong suspect in that Summerlin murder; Brass has gone to bring her in. What's happening in Carson City?"

"I'm waiting for some little critters to mature. And I'm wishing they'd do it faster. But I've been asked to lead an 'Introduction to Forensic Entomology' seminar for the people here before I leave, which will kill a bit of time—I'm trying to set it up for tomorrow afternoon."

"You really like teaching, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do; at least when the students are bright and interested. And it's a lot easier on the knees, too."

"Are they bothering you?"

"No—well, no more than usual. Although I do occasionally wonder how much longer I want to be crouching through the night."

Sara had seen his stiffness and pain after long nights at scenes; this wasn't a great shock to her. "Are you thinking about becoming a day-walker, and doing some teaching? If you got a university post, they'd be falling over themselves for you to do research and continue publishing papers and teach a course or three. I'm sure you'd be able to consult on interesting cases if you wanted."

He was pleased, albeit surprised, at her enthusiasm, but needed more time to contemplate it himself. "It's only ruminations at the moment. How about we talk more when I get back?"

-------------------

Questioned at school, Jo Marano said her Mom had gone hiking out at Red Rock Canyon on her day off. Locating her car was relatively quick—her silver Dodge Stratus was tracked down in the parking lot at Sandstone Quarry—but finding its owner took several hours.

Brass sent a couple of officers out on the trail to Turtlehead Peak, which departed from the Quarry. They returned inside 30 minutes, reporting that the trail surface was loose rock, and their shoes weren't up to the task. Brass grumbled a moment about regulation footwear and why couldn't she go for a walk on the Strip, before reclining his seat and setting the uniforms to keep watch while he "rested his eyes". One thing about being a veteran cop, Brass had learned how to nap when the opportunity presented itself.

"Captain, captain!" The young officer extended a hesitant hand to shake Brass' shoulder when he didn't respond.

" Uh, wh--? Hang on." Blinking and rubbing his eyes, he took a few deep breaths and got of the car, slightly refreshed and ready to go.

"Yeah, Butterworth, what is it?"

"Captain Brass, there's a female heading this way on the trail. You can't see her right now, but she should come into view again soon. Fits the general description of the suspect, Cap."

-------------------

"Sara, we've got her. I've called for a truck to bring her car back to CSI. Traffic permitting, we'll be back at PD in 30 to 45 minutes. See you there."

-------------------

_Wednesday evening _

In the end it was surprisingly simple. Faced with the fingerprint evidence, Sally Marano admitted that she had been in the Dorlowe house, and had inflicted the fatal blows. Her story tumbled out of her, in some sort of verbal catharsis.

The week before, she had learned from her daughter what Dorlowe had been doing to Jemma all those years. She had waited until both girls were away on their class trip, and then gone over to confront him.

"I just wanted to make him let Jemma live with us; she needed to get away from him. I didn't even think about reporting him to you guys." Marano shook her head slightly, apparently unable to explain why.

She rushed on, "But he just kept saying, no, that he was her guardian, she had to stay with him. All the while he was twiddling the turning rod on that bench vise, opening and closing the jaws. And then he said―" She gulped convulsively, and Brass glanced around the interview room, hoping to find a trash can. She looked like she was about to throw up.

The woman closed her eyes for a moment and took some deep, slow breaths. After a moment she looked up, and muttered vaguely, "OK. I'm OK."

Sara risked prompting her. "And then he said?"

"He said '_Maybe you and your daughter could come over_._ I'd like to have some adult company for a change, and a bit of variety_.' He was standing there in his smooth Versace suit, oozing sleaze. And he kept playing with that damn vise." Sally Marano looked at Brass, then Sara, then stared straight ahead, resolute.

"I flipped. I had hand-to-hand combat training in the army and I keep in shape, but I just went for him—smashed his slimy face into the vise, then grabbed a chisel and stabbed him . . . I don't know how many times."

"Ms Marano, we found the chisel under the victim's car. What can you tell me about that?" He didn't think it really mattered, but getting as much as possible out of a suspect was Brass' standard modus operandi.

"Under the car?" She looked confused for a moment, then her face cleared as she remembered. "I was holding it in my fist, and it got slippery—from the blood."

She glanced at Sara, who mumbled, "Uh-huh."

"He had stopped moving, and I leaned over to see if he was breathing. I, I dunno, it slipped out of my grip. I heard a noise—the chisel falling, I guess—and got startled. Maybe I kicked it under the car as I jumped."

Brass narrowed his eyes a moment then relaxed, slouching back in his chair. Regarding Marano dispassionately, he remarked, "You don't seem too worried about it."

She glared back at him, defiant. "I did it, I've admitted it. I didn't plan to do it, but it happened. He won't be able to abuse Jemma any more. You want me to write up a statement, I guess?"

Brass nodded, and shoved a pad of paper and pen across the table to her. Marano picked up the Bic and started to write. After a couple of lines, she suddenly froze in the middle of a word. She flung the pen down and stared blankly in Sara's direction. Her control shattered as she wailed, "What have I done? What can I say to my daughter? Oh, God, she's going to be all alone." She sank her head into her hands, sobbing.

Pressing his lips together and shaking his head minutely, Brass observed her for a moment, then spoke. "Uh, Ms Marano. How do you take your coffee—black, white, sugar?"

She raised teary eyes, dragged in a few lungfuls of air and eventually said, "Uh, black, none. Thanks."

"I-I--" Sara wanted to get out of the room. She cleared her suddenly froggy throat, and spoke up. "Hey, Brass, I'll get it."

Brass looked again at the overwhelmed woman and rose from his chair. "Sara, I'll come with, find some Kleenex. Uh, ma'am, don't go anywhere. There's an officer on the door. We'll be back soon."

As Sara pushed the buttons on the coffee dispenser, Brass propped himself against nearby the wall. "Geez, Sara, I should feel good. We've got a killer's freely given waiver of representation on tape, an unequivocal confession, plus fingerprint evidence that ties in neatly. But the guy she killed was worse than a waste of space, and there's a girl who's going to be without her mother for . . . years? And what about Jemma? I--I had to get out of the room for a bit."

Sara added sugar to her cup and tried with a plastic stirrer to dissolve it in the tepid liquid. "Why is this coffee never hot?"

Brass rolled his eyes ceiling-wards and grunted. "I didn't tell you—Marano said that she'd gone hiking to wrestle with her conscience, and while out on the trail she had resolved to turn herself in. That's as may be, but anyway she didn't put up any struggle, or try to avoid us out there. That may help her . . . a tiny bit."

Sara shrugged. "She'll have to get a lawyer sometime, and they'll be bound to go for manslaughter rather than murder—that cuts down prison time." Even talking about these things in general terms revived old memories that she had tried hard to forget. She was holding it together, but it was a close-run thing. _Concentrate on the case at hand. _"Shall we wrap it up?"

Brass strolled over the high reception counter and reached over to grab a box of tissues, then they proceeded back down the hall with the coffee. The officer standing guard was opening the door of the interview room for them when Sara pulled back. "Hey, Brass, I'll be there in a minute. I just need to do something."

-------------------

The tone beeped, and Sara began. "Griss, I've been thinking . . ." She was annoyed at her shaky voice, but forced herself to continue. "I want to, no, I _need_ to tell you the full story of what happened with my father." She laughed nervously. "How weird is it that the most private person I know has persuaded me that it's good to talk?" Her sigh was digitally recorded, and she ended in a small voice, "I miss you. When are you coming home?"

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**The Better Part**

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** Teen. Case details may be disturbing.  
**Disclaimer:** The principal characters don't belong to me, but it's fun to play with them.  
**Spoilers/Timeline:** Set after_ Built to Kill Part 1_. Anything earlier is fair game.  
**Author's note:** Recently I flew to LA, and was looking at the flight info thingy on the screen. I squeed (silently, I think) when I saw we were passing over Reno, Carson City and Lake Tahoe, but try as I might I couldn't see Grissom & co down there. Then we flew over Las Vegas on the return trip . . .  
Three cheers to **PhDelicious** for her beta skills.

**Summary:** While Grissom is away on a consult, Sara works a case with Brass—oh, and there are some phone calls. GSR, co-starring Brass.

**Chapter 5**

_Thursday morning_

"Damn, we keep missing each other. Sweetheart . . . I got your message. Look, I persuaded them to defer the seminar, so it can be set up properly, and get the best attendance. And I'm leaving the final parts of the timeline to be handled by the guy who's been assisting me here. I'm heading to the airport and I'll get the first available flight. Uh. . . I'll be back as soon as I can."

-------------------

Sara had completed her paperwork on the Dorlowe case and was heading out on what she sincerely hoped would be her last call of the night.

As she pushed open the door to the lab parking lot, a Lucky Cab pulled up a few feet to her left. Sara glanced idly at the magenta fenders, and supposed the point was to make their taxis distinctive. She wondered why it hadn't gone around to the front, to the public entrance, and had her answer when a familiar stocky figure emerged from the sedan. A weight she hadn't consciously felt lifted from her shoulders as she stood, hand forgotten on the door, waiting for him to spot her.

Grissom gathered up his kit and overnight bag and leaned into the open front passenger window, talking to the driver. Then he turned away from the car with a muttered "Thanks," shoving the receipt into his pocket.

At last he looked up.

A smile lit his tired face and her breath caught at the sight. Gulping in some air she said, "Hey, why didn't you call me? I would've picked you up at the airport."

Grissom noticed that Sara's voice was higher than usual; she inwardly cursed her squeakiness.

He moved to within a couple of feet. "Ah, you were working, remember?"

Now striving for lightness, Sara tilted her head and asked, "What, can't the boss call for a ride?"

Grissom feasted his eyes on her, taking in the charcoal shadows under hers and the lines of strain on her forehead, and he wanted so badly to let work go hang. "Honestly? If you'd met me at the airport I would have found it nearly impossible not to go straight home with you."

The crow's feet around his softly smiling eyes were deepened by fatigue; to Sara he had never looked so fine.

"It's good to be back."

"Mmmm. Seems like you've been gone a lot longer than two days."

"Yeah." He looked at her again, for the first time noticing the kit she was carrying. "Where are you headed?"

"Hit and run on Bonanza, east of MLK." Sara sighed; she had to be on her way very soon.

Grissom looked at her, thinking. She was tired, that was clear. Yet it was more than that; her characteristic strength and forthrightness were missing. Sara's long rangy frame, which he had so often admired moving confidently through the lab and crime scenes, seemed somehow shrunken and fragile. Although their decision to keep their relationship private was soundly-based, at times like this it took a super-human effort not to wrap his arms around her and give her the comfort she needed. The yearning in her eyes was clear but she made no move to close the gap between them.

He compromised. "Just a second—let me dump these inside and I'll walk you to your truck."

-------------------

Grissom's plan had been to leave his bags behind the reception desk, but when he went in Reception was thronged and Judy was looking frazzled. He opted instead to take them to the quiet calm of his office. Mission nearly accomplished, he was turning the key to lock his door when he heard the grating tones of Conrad Ecklie approaching quickly.

"Grissom! Finally back from your vacation at Lake Tahoe."

Other than tilting his head in Ecklie's direction, Grissom refused to dignify that with a response. He waited, not very patiently, to see if the Assistant Director had anything to actually communicate. The man got on Grissom's nerves by his mere existence, and he knew that showing any sign of displeasure or haste to depart would just make Ecklie drag it out longer. Not a good thing.

"Good timing for once. We've got that budget meeting with the Under Sheriff in half an hour."

_Damn. _He'd already put it off twice, and doing so again would run the risk of Ecklie persuading McKeen to redirect funding that Grissom wanted to hold on to.

Shoulders slumped in resignation, he mustered a civil tone and said, "Fine, Conrad. I'll find my file and see you over there shortly."

-------------------

Grasping the folder of budget papers, Grissom headed outside and found Sara sitting hunched over on her kit, head in her hands.

"Sorry for the delay. Ecklie. Uh, where's the truck?"

Sara looked up, belatedly hiding her wan expression. She rose, and pointed to the farthest corner of the lot, "Over there."

As they strolled over, she explained that Nick had had this particular vehicle last and been forced to park it way over at the edge of the parking lot when he'd returned it. While Grissom had been away, the Clark County Public Works Department had been progressively resurfacing the lot, and parking spots had been at a premium. This meant that the Denali in question had ended up in a smelly, poorly-lit spot tucked in next to the Crime Lab dumpsters.

Sara put her kit in the back of the truck then moved forward and opened the driver's door. Grissom put a restraining hand on her forearm and she turned to him, biting her lip, eyes downcast.

"Hey, come here. What's wrong?" He threw the folder onto the driver's seat and she leaned into his shoulder, shuddering, as he drew her into a soft embrace.

This was the secret side of Sara that he only rarely glimpsed, harsh flashes of the vulnerable, frightened child that she had once been.

Several deep, concentrated breaths later she got out, "I--I just . . . missed you. And I'm tired—too many doubles recently, and I don't sleep well alone anymore." She looked up, her eyes moist. "And that case, it . . . brought up old memories."

Grissom raised a hand, trying to wipe away the creases on her brow. Very tentatively he ventured, "D'you want to talk about it now?" If she did, he would have to invent a sudden migraine to avoid the meeting.

Sara shook her head mutely and raised her troubled eyes, soaking in the love shining from his. She swallowed hard over the lump in her throat and whispered, "I will, just . . . not here. Not . . . yet."

Grissom gathered her in more firmly, and she mumbled below his ear, "Soon, I promise."

He simply stood there, breathing in the jasmine scent of Sara's shampoo and lightly stroking the nape of her neck beneath her hair. "Anytime, sweetheart, you know that, anytime. When you're ready."

She clutched him more closely still, and he moved his hand between her shoulder blades, rubbing gently and rocking her ever so slightly, repeatedly murmuring, "Anytime."

Their insalubrious surroundings faded away as they swayed quietly together. Sara nestled into his cocoon of comfort; Grissom whispered softly into her ear.

Grissom could feel Sara's tension gradually unwinding; her body was straightening with resolve. As he dropped gentle kisses on her cheek, he fiercely regretted having to go. Never had the battle lines between his professional obligations and his personal desires been so starkly drawn. He sighed deeply and pulled back an inch or two.

With gentle fingers under her chin, he raised Sara's eyes to meet his. "Honey, I'm really sorry, but I've got to go to a budget meeting with Ecklie and the Under Sheriff. I've already put it off twice. It shouldn't take more than an hour and half. Do you want to meet back here?"

Although Sara didn't like feeling clingy, she was still reluctant to leave the safe haven of Grissom's arms. She set her jaw decisively and stepped back, saying, "No, I need to go to my apartment this morning, to pick up my mail and some clothes. After I've processed the scene and logged in any evidence I'll go do that—then I'll see you back at the townhouse when you're done."

Grissom saw the determination with which Sara was trying to mask her distress and wondered how best to help her.

She saw his intense gaze and tried to dissemble further. "Don't look so worried. I already feel better knowing I don't have to contend with a budget meeting, and Ecklie." Even though he knew it was mostly a pretence, her voice was stronger now, and Grissom's concern eased.

"Sure you don't want to swap? I'll take your hit and run." He cocked his head to the side and tried to look like he was serious.

"No way, buster, Ecklie's all yours." Grissom pouted pathetically at that and Sara grinned broadly in return, adding, "Hey, time's a-wasting. We'd better go do our respective jobs."

In the dingy corner of the parking lot they drew together again, seeking and giving comfort in the press of their bodies, the strength of their embrace. Lips met in gentle kisses of promise, of partnership rather than passion—time enough for that when they were safely home. They shared quiet smiles as they parted.

Back to business, Grissom retrieved his file and held the door open as she climbed into the truck. Closing the door he murmured, "Stay safe, Sara."

She looked at him through the window and mouthed, "You too."

-------------------

Through the glass walls of his office, Jim Brass saw Grissom approaching, cell phone clamped to his right ear. Before noticing the CSI, Brass had picked up his own phone to make a call. He remained that way, handset pressed to ear and mouth, but secretly observing his friend, who looked surprisingly . . . _tender_ was the word that came to mind.

"The meeting just finished . . . yeah, I'll be there in about an hour."

Brass' waving caught Grissom's eye, and he raised a hand in response to the beckoning.

"Hey, I'm just going to stop in and see Brass for a few minutes. You sure you're all right?"

Brass watched with fascination as Grissom's cheeks and the tips of his ears flushed.

"I know . . . me too. OK, see you soon." Pressing the end button, he closed the phone and stuffed it into his pocket.

Brass waved at him again to come on in, then turned to his filing cabinet. Reaching into the bottom drawer, he drew out a bottle of Chivas and two glasses and plunked them on his desk.

"Haven't made many inroads into this since you gave it to me for my birthday. But it's great to have for times like these. You look like you could use one, Gil."

"Huh? Oh, I'm just tired. You know, having to switch schedules, sleeping badly in a strange bed."

"Hmmm. Yeah." Brass poured a scant finger into each glass, and pushed one toward Grissom. "Your health," he said as he raised his glass.

"And yours," Grissom reciprocated.

They savored the smooth whisky in silence for a moment.

"So, Jim, how is it, being back at work full-time?"

"Eh, you know . . ." Brass swiveled his chair to his right and bent gingerly over to pull out the bottom desk drawer. He then leaned back and carefully lifted his legs up to prop his feet up on the makeshift footrest.

Grissom watched silently, waiting to see if Brass would add anything.

Brass gave a small grunt of relief, and reached for his glass. He had a second, larger mouthful before setting his glass back down on the desk.

Grissom wrinkled his forehead, mutely repeating his inquiry.

After another sip, Brass eventually answered. "Yeah, well . . . I am a little weary, but not really sore." He looked at Grissom's openly skeptical face and rephrased, "Maybe a bit achy. You get older, it takes longer to fully heal and get your energy back."

Grissom nodded. Jim was telling it like it was, not looking for sympathy. He suddenly noticed something new. "Hey, is that your valor commendation there by your phone? Warrick said you were hiding it in a drawer."

"Man, people keep getting at me about that. Sara was the latest, just the other day. It's mine, I can do what I want with it, can't I?" He shook his head. "Well, anyway, I decided if I put it there, where I see it every time I reach for the phone, it'll remind me never to do such a dumb thing again."

Grissom pursed his lips and chuckled lightly. "Hmmm—that's not a bad idea."

"Hey, uh . . ." Brass stopped, then started again. "Ah, was . . ."

"You're uncharacteristically hesitant, Jim," remarked Grissom, with an encouraging smile.

Brass's eyes flicked jerkily around the room. He looked at his drink, then the door—seemingly to check that it was closed—then at Grissom. Finally he picked up his glass again, gentling swirling the light amber liquid.

At last he spoke. "Look, Gil, this is . . . none of my business really, but you're my friend, you're both my friends and . . . I'm hoping my instincts aren't off."

Grissom was curious about Jim's use of 'both' and 'friends'. "What's up?"

Brass rubbed his index and middle fingers over his lips as he contemplated the man sitting calmly across from him.

"Uh, y'see, I've been getting this vibe . . . You know I worked a case with Sara while you were up at Lake Tahoe?"

"Sure, the body in the garage."

Brass smothered a yawn and went for it. Leaning a little toward Grissom, he started, "It was a tough case, but she handled it really well. Uh, I thought she looked a bit shaky once or twice, even then she seemed to be able to tap into some inner reserve and claw herself back from the edge. She'd take a break, maybe make a call―"

"Yeah . . . I spoke to her whenever I could."

"Gil, maybe I'm way off base." Brass' cautious eyes wandered over his desk and rose to meet Grissom's steady sky-blue gaze. "I didn't eavesdrop, but you know me, I'm always checking out people's demeanor."

Brass smirked gently. "As Yogi Berra once said, 'You can observe a lot by watching'. She didn't always _look_ like she was talking to her supervisor, but she'd finish the call and soon after always mentioned something about what you were doing on the shores of Lake Tahoe, or how you were getting on in Carson City."

He paused for another sip. "Then I got to thinking how she seems more relaxed, happy most of the time these days, and how you aren't always my competition now for the world's biggest grouch, and I got to wondering―"

Grissom smiled enigmatically.

"Yeah, wondering, if you and she had . . . finally got your act together."

Grissom nodded almost imperceptibly and stared serenely at his friend.

"Whatever." Brass waggled his head slightly from side to side. "Seems to do you both good. It's safe with me. How about a toast?"

He refreshed his drink, and waved the bottle in his companion's direction. Grissom still had some; he put a flat hand over his glass, saying no to more, and arched an inquiring eyebrow.

Brass looked at him, and grinned. "A toast—to discretion."

Grissom squinted, amused. Half standing to reduce the stretch, he reached forward to clink glasses with Brass. Instead of sitting down again, he got fully to his feet, watching as Brass drank.

Grissom raised his own glass and sipped, then smiled his gratitude as he replied, "The better part of valor."

THE END

"The better part of valor is discretion."  
Shakespeare _Henry IV_, Part I, Act V, Scene IV

**Original author's note:** I hope it wasn't _too_ obvious that I wrote five chapters just so I could end up with that quote. This is where _The Better Part_ was originally intended to end, but stopping here would mean leaving the part about Sara's back story hanging. Super beta **PhDelicious** and some reviewers nudged me to think about it, so I am—there will be another chapter or two, likely after Christmas. There will of necessity be a brief lull in Brass involvement, because there's some serious GSR stuff coming up and I'm not into threesomes. But 'Jimbo' will return!  
Happy Holidays to one and all.

**Updated author's note: **Sorry if you were keen on the proposed further chapters mentioned in my original note, but RL considerations mean that they are not going to happen anytime soon. So I'm declaring _The Better Part_ 'officially' finished - thank you for reading.


End file.
